


Old Traditions

by lettersfromvenus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Characters, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners, M/M, Other, it’s really just a fluffy thing that came from a prompt, that’s all, they’re both morons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 11:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersfromvenus/pseuds/lettersfromvenus
Summary: Crowley tells Aziraphale that he loves him in the middle of Armageddon, and the angel’s reaction isn’t what he might have expected. As a result, a room-full of unsuspecting houseplants are left to deal with a particularly sulky demon.





	Old Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> This was really just an act of shameless self-indulgence. I hope you all enjoy these two being absolute morons as much as I do. 💋

As one might expect, there was a whole load of hullabaloo that came with averting the apocalypse. As Aziraphale had once put it, it was “_all manner of bugger-all, my dear boy.”_

Some things were more difficult to handle than others; there was the return of some very confused but very grateful fish to the ocean, and with that, the prompt disappearance of Atlantis. There was the humans, with both their collective denial and their talk of the dreams that they’d been having (the M25 absolutely ablaze, I tell you — such _strange_ dreams!). And there was the icing on the metaphorical cake, of course, which had been the tantrums thrown by Heaven and Hell, respectively.

It was a manageable sort of hullabaloo, at the very least; granted, more of it than not had been sorted by an 11-year-old boy and his vastly powerful imagination (with a dash of help from his satanic abilities, of course). When it came right down to it, even Heaven and Hell hadn’t been terribly difficult to thwart — although _that_ could perhaps have been attributed to the fact that they had been throwing their superiors off of their trails quite literally since the beginning of time. And also to the prophecies of one Agnes Nutter, of course.

In the end, the most difficult thing about averting the apocalypse was returning to life as normal after the fact.

Especially if you were Anthony J. Crowley.

And especially if, in the midst of it all, you had gone and word-vomited some, er — _choice_ feelings for your enemy-turned-not-quite-friend-turned-best-friend, directly to said enemy-turned-not-quite-friend-turned-best-friend’s face, only to have him go on acting like you had never said anything at all.

Crowley had been blessing himself for the dim-witted mistake near daily. A wretched burn of frustration seized him each and every time Aziraphale smiled at him (warm and lovely, like he knew exactly how many stars Crowley had strung up in the sky in his days as an angel), and it only burned hotter the more time they spent with one another. Every night that they spent in the back room of the bookshop, pouring glass after glass of wine as they laughed and drank the night away; every duck-feeding expedition that took place in the park, during which he would sink as many ducks as he could just to watch Aziraphale sputter and swear and resurface each and every one of them; every time their shoulders or their hands or their knees brushed, and Aziraphale responded not by pulling away, but by staying exactly where he was: Close enough, but still just out of reach.

It was maddening, all of it. The complete lack of a response was almost worse than the blatant rejection that he had spent such a long time convincing himself to expect, and it was certainly safe to say that he had been spiraling, just a bit.

Now, Crowley wasn’t human, of course, but that wasn’t to say that he didn’t need some sort of an outlet for the tangled mess of emotions and unrequited _things_ he’d been dealing with. He did, and he absolutely indulged himself with a good rant every now and again. However, he also didn’t quite have what one would call “friends” — not apart from the obvious, anyways — so that really only left him with one good option.

If there was any being earthly, unearthly, human or celestial, that was utterly sick and tired of hearing about Crowley’s exploits with Aziraphale (if you could really call them that, anyways) it was the demon’s house plants.

The first night he had come home to his flat following the apocalypse-that-hadn’t-been, the plants had all been able to feel the fury and resentment coming off of him in waves. It hadn’t been outwardly expressed, verbally or otherwise, because at the time, the bookshop had still been a mess of ash and soot, and Aziraphale had still been with him. It was of no significance, however; the Devil’s Ivy, the Peace lilies, the Cast Iron Plants — they had _all_ felt it, all the same, and they had spent that evening trembling each time Crowley walked past, despite the fact that he had never spoken a word to them directly.

It hadn’t been until the next time the plants had seen him that the searing anger he’d felt (at _himself_ of all things, as they would come to find out) had leapt out, having gone from a simmer, to a boil, to a roaring, unkempt eruption of distressed shouting.

_“And what the_ Heaven _was I supposed to think?!”_ he had shouted at them, full bore. _“He had that ridiculous sword in his hand, and we’ve been on shaky ground, right, and I bloody_ panicked!”

Panic, he had. He had thought, just for a split second, that Aziraphale was threatening him with the sword, and the words had just... spilled out, like the world’s most pathetic and ill-thought-through choice of potential last words.

“_I’msosorryIloveyouAngel.”_

In his defense, it wasn’t like _he_ had seen it coming, either.

It had been _Satan_ himself, of all things, and his best friend looking like he might just have been frustrated enough with Crowley to _off_ him, and — _fuck_.

The houseplants would go on to hear one version of this story or another repeatedly over the next couple of weeks, each time the pair went for lunch, or a stroll in the park, or whatever else, and Crowley was left to wonder what it all _meant_. Each of the recollections was as irritated as the first, but as time went on, the emotional turmoil wore him down, and the shouting quieted down into something more like exasperated complaining. Still, the plants made sure to give a tremble here and there — goodness knew what would happen to them if their keeper thought they weren’t _listening._

“He, he just — _oh_, I don’t know,” Crowley muttered as he set his plant mister down. The plants all gave a flutter of their leaves — listening, but passively.

It was a Thursday — a nice day, sunny out, plain as plain could be. Aziraphale had invited him out for lunch, and he’d turned him down, because — well, because he was _tired_. Not tired enough to warrant a couple of years worth of napping, unfortunately, but enough that he didn’t feel up to making like everything was just peachy — like the angel’s chipper mood didn’t make him feel even _worse_.

“S’not like the sixties,” he muttered, and drug a hand down over his face as he paused to laze against the door jam. “I mean, it’s not like those years were _good_. All of it was bad — all of it! And there was the walking on eggshells for years and years afterwards, but at least I _understood_! Bloody hell, I wish I understood _anything_ right now.”

There was a shift in the air, almost as though the plants had heaved a collective sigh.

For a creature who wasn’t supposed to be able to _feel_, Crowley bloody well felt things deeply, and there was no shortage of the tired, anxious energy that had been seeping out of him in the air. Even a human could have felt it blocks away.

This also meant, quite unfortunately for the sulking demon, that an angel could have felt it (and _had_ felt it) _miles_ away.

Aziraphale had been able to feel the staggering changes in Crowley’s energy for weeks, now. He’d have been able to feel it even if it weren’t for his celestial sixth sense — he had known the other man for 6,000 years, after all, and he wasn’t a fool.

He had been concerned from the get-go, of course; following all that happened concerning Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale had at first wondered if there had been some sort of conflict, some contact with Hell that Crowley wasn’t telling him about. It was only fair to assume, after all — he _had_ gone and kept a sizable amount of his dealings with Heaven to himself, when it came right down to it. What was to stop Crowley from doing the same?

However, a fair amount of time had passed and there had never been any interference, so it didn’t quite make sense to continue thinking it had anything to do with Hell. They had thrown out all of the stops the last time around, what with the public kidnapping ordeal, and he couldn’t see any reason why they’d have been subtle in having a second go.

Which could only mean one thing — there was something _else_ that Crowley wasn’t saying, and Aziraphale had every intention of figuring out just what it was.

The rejection of his invitation to lunch had been the last straw, and the reason that he had decided to drop by Crowley’s flat. It was something he probably didn’t do often enough, anyhow, and reluctant as he was to admit it (read: as big a hypocrite as it made him), he didn’t _at all_ like the idea that he was being kept in the dark. He cared far too much for his friend for all of that, and if there was something wrong, then they would figure it out together.

If Armageddon had taught him anything, it was that their trust in one another was a powerful thing, and so he was here, only just raising a hand to knock on Crowley’s door when he was stopped short by something of a commotion inside of the flat.

Well — if you could call the frustrated wail of a demon a commotion, anyways. There was a crash to follow the wail, and Aziraphale blinked. He stopped to listen a moment, but heard nothing more than what sounded like someone speaking softly.

To Hell with pleasantries, then. Something was obviously troubling Crowley, and he wouldn’t stand for it.

He entered the flat quietly (if he had persuaded the lock to unlatch by way of a minor miracle, no one needed to know about it), and surveyed the entry way and the front room. When he found no sign of Crowley there, he kept on. He didn’t bother checking the kitchen (because it was mostly for show anyhow), and when he found the bedroom, and the study empty as well, he heaved a sigh. Just one place left to check, then.

He should perhaps have known that Crowley might be busy caring for his plants. He had a habit of preoccupying himself by giving them a good shout when he was distressed, after all — and, now that he thought about it, that could very well have been the reason for the wailing.

Aziraphale had expected to come upon Crowley as he usually was: Sauntering about the room, inspecting the leaves of his ivies and his corn plants and viciously threatening any plant that even considered wilting.

What he came upon instead was the demon knelt down before a potted plant that wasn’t quite a potted plant anymore. The white porcelain of its pot was in shards, scattered across the floor, and Crowley was busy scooping soil up off of the floor and doing the best he could to keep the plant’s roots intact.

Aziraphale wondered, first, what the plant might have done to warrant such a violent punishment, but the longer he stood in the doorway, silent and unnoticed, the less the scene unfolding before him made any sense.

“—not your fault, for Heaven’s sake,” Crowley cussed, and in the next moment conjured a small miracle of his own to being the plant’s broken pot back to form. He carefully repotted the leafy little thing, which (like all of the other plants in the room) quivered with fright. “It - It’s, It’s just -“ he paused to make a choked noise as he appeared to struggle for the right words. “It’s a sore spot, that’s all, the not listening bit.”

He paused to tidy the plant’s leaves a bit. Aziraphale took a step to the side, half-concealing himself from view. The plant didn’t look any less afraid. He sighed, dragging both hands through his fiery red hair and disarraying it even more than usual.

“I told him I _loved_ him, and I’m not even sure he heard me,” he muttered, looking positively miserable as he scooped the plant up off of the floor and stood to put it back in its place, with the others.

_That_ caught Aziraphale’s attention.

His thoughts came to a screeching halt as he considered it. The anxiety, the anger, the _uncertainty_ that he had been able to feel surrounding Crowley for weeks, now — it had made sense in the beginning, when they had still had Gabriel and Beelzebub, and Michael and Hastur to deal with. It had made less sense in the weeks following, when it had been clear that Heaven and Hell had no further plans to bother them, but thinking about it in _these_ terms changed the context entirely.

_Of course_ he had heard what Crowley had said, in that moment before time had stopped. Even though it had been spoken hastily — like one long word rather than seven separate ones — and even though they had spoken at the same time, because they had needed _something_ and all he had been able to think to threaten the other man with had been the silent treatment, he had heard it.

But he had never thought that Crowley had needed him to say it _back_.

He took a hurried step into the room just as his friend reached for the plant mister, and when he spoke, Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin.

“_Whatever_ are you on about, my dear?” he asked, absolutely appalled at the idea that he had been the source of the distress he had been able to sense all of these weeks.

“_Aziraphale_?!” Crowley exclaimed, and took a startled step backward. “What — what the Heaven are you _doing_ here? I told you I wasn’t feeling up to lunch today! Because, the — it was — erm, the plants, they, ah — they needed some extra attention—“

Each and every plant in the room rustled its leaves, as if to shout at the angel that none of it was true — as though he didn’t know that already.

“Crowley,” he said simply. He leveled the sputtering demon with a pointed look, and Crowley shrunk, wishing desperately that his sunglasses were within reach. He settled for looking anywhere but directly at the other man, instead, and staying quiet — surely if he said anymore, he’d only make a bigger fool of himself than he already had.

When he didn’t say any more, Aziraphale took a step closer to him and reached a hand out to touch his shoulder.

“Crowley,” he repeated, softer, and frowned when the taller man still refused to meet his gaze. “What in the world would make you think I didn’t hear you tell me that you loved me?”

Demons don’t often blush. They make it a point not to, in fact, because it was one of the few sure signs of vulnerability. Crowley, however, wasn’t just any demon. His cheeks flushed _hot_; any shade of red you could name off the top of your head — crimson, maroon, burgundy, fuchsia, vermilion — every one of them may as well have been present, muddled together in a glaring show of embarrassment and dread on his face.

He looked at Aziraphale, finally, wide-eyed, and found that the angel was _smiling_ at him, of all things, just as gently as he always did.

“Well, you — ah — ! “ he tried, and paused to make a frustrated sound when he couldn’t immediately find the words. “You never said it back, did you? Never returned the sentiment, or — or — _whatever_. Things just... got on. Like nothing ever happened.” Aziraphale gave him a look, brow creased with concern and mouth turned down in a frown. “Wound up feeling like a bit of a fool, me.”

The angel blinked at him, cocking his head to one side in a manner so innocent that it made Crowley want to shout all over again. He had never intended for all of this to come out into the open, not any time soon, anyways, and probably not anytime in the distant future, either. He had been just fine with things the way they had been — perfect, even. He had been shut down once, sure, but Aziraphale had continued to be friendly with him, and it had all been perfectly okay! Well, okay if a bit awkward, but it had definitely been better than _this_—

“Oh, my dear boy. I never thought it needed saying.”

Crowley froze. He stared at Aziraphale, mouth open wide in awe as his mind struggled to catch up.

“Sorry, what?”

Aziraphale, of all of the reactions he could have had, _laughed_. He seemed genuinely amused at Crowley’s confusion, and if the demon weren’t so busy trying to figure out what _exactly_ was going on, he’d have been furious.

“I said: I never thought I needed to tell you outright how I felt about you. I had always assumed you knew very well,” the angel explained gently, and to say that Crowley felt like his head was spinning would have been an incredible understatement.

“How you felt about me,” he echoed, deadpan, glancing between the hand on his arm and his friend’s smiling face.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed.

“You assumed I knew,” he went on, slowly but surely piecing the puzzle together. “How _you_ felt about _me._“

“Precisely, yes.”

“Which would mean…”

Aziraphale’s smile grew, and he let his grip on Crowley’s shoulder loosen in favor of letting his hand slip downward, along the sleeve of his jumper to take ahold of his hand instead.

“Which would _mean_: I love you, too. Very much, in fact.”

If he had felt like his world was spinning circles around him before, he may as well have gone and boarded a never-ending carousel ride, now. A whirlwind of emotions came crashing over him, and he gripped Aziraphale’s hand tightly as made a valiant effort to brave the storm and sort through them all. There was the unbridled bewilderment at it all, the very-much-warranted annoyance at what had been such a _massive_ miscommunication between them, the sinking disappointment at who-knew-how-many-years’ worth of missed opportunities, and, of course, the swell of warmth in his chest that came with Aziraphale touching him, smiling at him — expressing _love_ for him.

He tried his very best to focus his concentration on that last bit, he did, but in the end the shock and annoyance got a leg up on the elation.

Because Aziraphale _loved_ him, and how in the name of everything unholy had he missed _that_?

“But — _how_? No, no, not how — when?” he asked, absolutely fraught with confusion. He turned away from the other man, and tried not to focus too much on the hand that lost its grip on his own as he took a couple of steps away. “I never thought, not in a million years, not after — that you could — that we would —“ he rambled, gesturing frantically with both hands in a desperate attempt to get his point across, whether it was with complete sentences or not. He gave up trying after a moment, and let them fall uselessly at his sides as he heaved a sigh. He simply couldn’t comprehend it. “Demons aren’t even _meant_ to love. It made perfectly enough sense that you wouldn’t have wanted it from me. Let alone wanted to give any in return.”

The last couple of sentences were mumbled, almost as though Crowley wasn’t entirely certain whether or not he wanted them heard. Aziraphale _did_ hear them, however, and the smile on his face fell as he watched the demon’s shoulders slump and his head bow, like he was ashamed to be admitting to any of it. He never took his eyes off of Crowley, despite the fact that his back was now turned to him. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t entirely sure what to say, what to do to make up for how — how _unloved_ he had apparently made Crowley feel.

“How long?” came his friend’s voice, then, before he could think any more on the matter. The question was soft and hesitant, and Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a tight line. He breathed a sigh out through his nose before answering.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he began, even though he definitely _did_ know. “3004 BC? Roughly,” he said. _The Ark_. _Crowley, standing there beside him, fretting over the lives of children. More an angel than a demon, and certainly kinder than any angel he had ever come across._ His voice pitched a bit as he spoke — as he realized _just_ how long it had really been — and he smiled a nervous smile as Crowley whirled around to face him, wide-eyed.

“_Three-thousand-and-four—_!” he yelped, moving back toward Aziraphale a step or two. “How could you possibly have — agh! Angel, that doesn’t even make _sense_!

Crowley didn’t look angry so much as he looked completely and utterly dumbfounded at the newly-revealed information. Aziraphale lowered his gaze, smiling softly

“And why not?”

Crowley gaped, fish-mouthing just a bit as he thought back on it — on _all_ of it. Where could he start?

“I mean — there was the sixties, for starters,” he said, because it had been on his mind to begin with. Aziraphale met his eyes once again, with that, looking about as confused as Crowley felt.

“What was the matter with the sixties?” the angel asked, wringing his hands as he tended to do when he was anxious. He certainly remembered something of a gap of communication between them around that time, but he hadn’t paid it _too_ much mind. Crowley blinked. There was no way Aziraphale didn’t remember, was there?

“‘_You go too fast for me’_,” he said simply. “You’re not telling me don’t remember that? I carried that with me for _decades_.”

And he had. It had been startlingly similar to the events recently, except in that time, Crowley had made a point of taking a step back — and a bloody big one, too.

The angel gave him the oddest look, as though he were trying to figure out what in world the significance behind the decades-old moment was. And it was with Aziraphale’s next words that Crowley felt as though he had been hit by a train for a second time that average, sunny Thursday.

“Crowley— my dear, you drive _90-miles-per-hour_ through central London!” he exclaimed, looking positively aghast. “Your driving is horrific! My word, you thought — you thought I meant —“

“That I made you uncomfortable, yeah,” Crowley muttered, feeling like the universe’s biggest twat. He groaned loudly, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. If he had so blatantly misunderstood _that_, then clearly there was a whole host of other things he had probably misinterpreted.

_Three-thousand-four BC._ Bloody hell.

“Never,” Aziraphale said, as sure as could be. He never took his eyes off of his friend, watching each and every detectable shift in his expression as he went on. “Not in 6,000 years. There’ve been hundreds of angels who’ve made me more uncomfortable than you ever have.”

The demon smirked, dropping both of his hands to his sides once more.

“I asked you to go off with me,” he said, but without much fight to it.

“We couldn’t very well have gone off together in the middle of armageddon, could we have?”

“And you turned me down. Repeatedly.”

“Because Adam and the others still _needed_ us—“

“Told me it was _over_ between us.”

“I know, and I would never have—“

“And then I thought you might be about to _skewer_ me with that bloody sword of yours—“

“_Crowley_!” Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley paused, finally, to fix his companion with a rather amused smile. “You thought I was going to _kill_ you?! Goodness me, what in Heaven’s name would ever have made you think _that_? I could _never_ hurt you, not even if you _had_ done something to deserve it, and — and — why are you _laughing_?”

Crowley was, in fact, laughing. Cackling, even, because it the absurdity of it all had finally hit him, and as it settled in — well. He couldn’t quite help but laugh, despite Aziraphale’s frantic concern.

“Oh, Angel,” he snorted, and shook his head as he looked at Aziraphale, sparing only a moment’s hesitation before dropping his guard and allowing himself to do what he had been dying to do for a millennia or four. He took a wide step forward and closed the gap between them, winding one arm around the angel’s middle to pull him close and then cradling his cheek in the opposite palm. He only waited a moment, just long enough to give Aziraphale a split second to to catch up, before he leaned in and caught the other man’s lips in a delicate kiss.

It was soft and sweet, all contented sighs and thumbs brushing cheekbones, and it didn’t last terribly long, but it left both angel and demon with a flushed face, a pounding heart, and an incredible lack of breath. Crowley grinned, and Aziraphale sighed, and with that, they settled into each other’s arms.

“That was…” Aziraphale began, but paused to wrap both arms tight around Crowley as he melted against him. He held on tightly, softening as the taller man buried his face at the crook of his neck and rested that way — like he never had any intention of moving again.

“New?” Crowley offered, muffled. “A little bit clumsy?”

“Wonderful,” the angel corrected, and smiled when he felt a familiar pair of arms tighten around him. He brushed a hand through the mess of red hair tickling his jaw. “And incredibly _human._“

“Yes, well,” Crowley mused, and straightened up to look at him once more. He looked calmer, more _relaxed_ than he had in weeks — than he _ever_ had, really — and it brought a smile to Aziraphale’s face. “We’ve both been living with the lot of them for a long, long time. Certain… traditions are bound to rub off.”

That prompted a laugh from Aziraphale and by extension, from Crowley. In the next moment, Aziraphale reached with both hands to cradle the face that he had spent 6,000 years memorizing, and the amused grin on said face softened.

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to have kept you waiting. I never suspected this was something you would want,” he said, with such sincerity it struck something raw inside of Crowley.

“I — ah. Mm. I just can’t believe I never knew how you felt, if m’honest,” he admitted, and it was true. He allowed one hand to wander, to fiddle with the angel’s ridiculous, tartan bowtie as he spoke. “And I especially can’t believe that you thought I _did_.

Aziraphale sighed softly, never taking his eyes off of his friend’s face as he nodded his head.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed,” he mused, and smiled, a smile as bright as the sun and all of the stars in Alpha Centauri combined when Crowley met his gaze. “It’s just — well. I’m not certain you know this, Crowley, but your _love_ — the love that you feel for me radiates off of you in _waves_, my dear boy.”

Just like that, the color drained from the demon’s face. Because he had _not_ known this, absolutely not, and if he _had_, mind you, he would have made a much, much greater effort to remain inconspicuous.

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” he complained, and let his head loll backward in favor of staring pointedly at the ceiling for a moment, as though it might have the antidote for the mortification he was feeling at the present. “So what you’re telling me is that I’ve just gone and made an arse of myself for a couple of millennia, is that it?”

Aziraphale laughed, the sound of it like an amused chorus of wind chimes tinkling in the breeze, and nodded his head.

“It would seem so,” he confirmed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw, and Crowley snorted. The show of physical affection was new, certainly, but it wouldn’t take long to get used to.

He righted himself not more than a couple of seconds later, and cocked his head to one side as he looked into the clear blue of the angel’s eyes with no hesitation, no Heaven, no Hell — not even any sunglasses to stand between them.

“Well, we’ve got it right now, don’t we?” he suggested, and for the first time, he welcomed the swell of sunny warmth that he felt when Aziraphale smiled at him with such fondness that Crowley wondered how he had ever missed it in the first place.

“Yes, I believe we’ve got it quite right, this time around,” Aziraphale confirmed, and wasted no time in tangling his own hands up in Crowley’s hair as he leaned in close, again, and kissed the other man deeply — more deeply than the first time around, certainly. It felt something like a promise, and if every plant in the room, from the Parlor Palms to the Spider Plants, breathed a collective sigh of relief, Crowley pretended not to hear it.

For the first time since the beginning of time, he felt worthy of something other than hellfire, and nothing would ruin it for him. They had all of the time in the world, and he’d bloody-well be blessed if he wasted another moment of it.

Aziraphale hummed into the kiss, and let himself enjoy it for another few moments before he pulled back, just enough to smile at his companion

“I must say, I think the humans were _absolutely_ onto something, with this particular tradition,” he mumbled, and kissed Crowley’s lips softly once more.

Crowley sighed, thoroughly content as he returned to the position he had taken up earlier: Wrapped warmly in Aziraphale’s arms, face tucked in against his neck. He smiled, a warm, _sated_ sort of thing, and gave his angel a hell of a cuddle as he made himself comfortable.

“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”


End file.
